


Who Knows Where My Dreams Will End

by Plainxte



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Internal Monologue, Introspection, M/M, Overthinking, Period-Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Language, Pre-Slash, Tags May Change, Touring, mentions of illness, possibly, reassessing relationships, reassessing values, vague descriptions of illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: On tour in 1974, an unexpected encounter leaves Brian questioning everything he has ever thought about himself...
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury, Brian May/Freddie Mercury (one-sided), Brian May/OC (brief thought)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 29





	Who Knows Where My Dreams Will End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quirkysubject](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/gifts).



> A while ago, Quirkysubject ✨ gave me a fantastic prompt to write. (Thank you! 💓) I then proceeded to take an age or so to think it over - but here the story finally is. Here you are! 💝 
> 
> Or the first part of it, anyway... 😄
> 
> Nastally beta-read this for me: thank you so much! 💞🥰 She worked wonders and asked all the right questions, and she made this so much better than it otherwise would have been!

_North America, early May, 1974_

*

"Are you sure you're okay?" There was a frown on Roger's face. 

"I'm fine," Brian said, leaning on the bar heavily. "Just not feeling it tonight. I'll go back to the hotel, get some sleep. Don't worry about me."

"You've been saying that a lot lately." 

"Just tired, that's all," Brian sighed, turning away from Roger. It was true. Sleep was hard to come by these days, and everything seemed about a hundred times more difficult than it should have been. The last thing he wanted was to get into a protracted argument about it.

Fortunately, just as Roger looked like he was going to press the issue, a general consensus seemed to have been reached at their table, and everyone started to get up and pull on their coats.

"Oi! Rog!" Morgan, one of Mott's keyboardists, was trying to catch Roger's attention. Morgan seemed like a nice guy all round. Brilliant musician, too, Brian thought, but another wave of queasiness shooting through his stomach cut his reflections short. If only he could lie down already.

"We're leaving! Are you coming or what?"

Roger cast one last suspicious glance in Brian's direction, but he seemed to make up his mind as he did. He gave Brian's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze and peeled himself away from the bar. He waved in Morgan's direction.

"Be right there!" he called, and then gave Brian a final nod. "Hey, Bri? Feel better, yeah?"

"Yes, yes. Thanks. Later, Rog," Brian smiled weakly, abandoning the bar in turn, and shuffled in the direction of the door. He'd slip out before the others noticed and find a taxi – expenses be damned, although he hoped that the management would consent to pay for it. Hopefully it would get him back to the hotel fast. 

The two bands and most of the crew had washed up at this rather sleepy bar for post-show drinks tonight. The idea had been to head out and see if there was some actual nightlife somewhere here in… wherever they were staying. Brian frowned to himself. He couldn't remember. Was his memory failing him, too? But in any case, he couldn't stand the thought of hours of drinking and partying. Not tonight. What he needed was to get into a horizontal position as quickly as possible, he thought. Some peace and quiet and darkness. Maybe that would make things all right again.

Although if he was honest with himself, he couldn't remember the last time that he'd felt _all right._ He squashed the thought down mercilessly and immediately. No need to be so morbid.

As he looked back one last time just as the doors were closing behind him, Brian thought he caught a glimpse of Freddie's dark head in the crowd. For some inexplicable reason, he felt a small tug of regret in his heart. It wasn't that he wanted to stay. He had never enjoyed these boozy nights all that much. Not like his bandmates did. 

Of course he liked a drink, and he didn't have anything against other people drinking. But he didn't like the feeling of being drunk – of losing control of his actions, very much. Not remembering what had happened, on the day after. He resented that. And if you weren't drunk yourself, it quickly became rather tiresome to listen to the drunken nonsense of others. Anyway, he had already stayed longer than he should have, given that he really wasn't feeling well.

And yet, as the door closed, separating him from the laughter and the chatter inside the bar, Brian suddenly felt that maybe he should have reconsidered. 

How strange. It wasn't as though he didn't already spend almost every waking second with the others. Freddie was always around. But just then, Brian regretted giving up the chance to just watch Freddie for a while. Just watch him. To hear his laughter, and to see his animated face and the graceful movements of his hands as he related a story to a crowd of avid listeners. The thought was enticing: he could bask in Freddie's warmth for a while, and maybe feel a bit less cold within himself for a moment or two.

Another painful twinge in his midriff shook him out of his jumbled thoughts quickly. Right. Time to get to the hotel before he passed out or something ridiculous like that.

Fortunately, he located a taxi quickly and the journey wasn't long. Brian felt a bit better once he was sitting down, watching the lights of the town go by outside the window, all but lulling him to sleep.

It was a strange experience, this American tour thing. Not at all like he had expected. For one, he hadn't expected that he would miss home as much as he did. And this constant tiredness and nausea that plagued him forced him to bow out of after-concert activities, which meant that he had seen very little of the places they had visited. It was all a blur. Well, New Orleans had stood out, for many reasons, but after that? The towns blended together and became one long succession of dingy hotels and far too long bus rides, dozing off in the oddest places, and always cold, never quite warm enough.

But despite all that, it was still fantastic to be playing to these audiences. He was learning so much – they all were – and they were playing well, they really were. And there was that, about Morgan. What had he been thinking about…? It had been interesting to get to know him. He really was a rather wonderful musician. And… Brian couldn't help but wonder if someone like him could solve the issues they kept running into with their live sound. The bigger their stages got, the more they felt like their sound was a little thin, with just the four of them playing. It kept coming up in discussions, but they hadn't come to any conclusions. It was just that performing was getting more and more stressful as time went on. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get the sound to carry, on this tour. Brian had to be very mindful of his position on stage if he wanted anyone to hear even half of what he was doing. There were so many things to try to keep track of, and so much that could go wrong.

Maybe it was just the stress that was getting to him. Maybe he wasn't handling it as well as the others? Now there was an uncomfortable thought. 

He had hoped to slip into the hotel room quickly and quietly (and to be as deeply asleep as possible by the time Roger came crashing in, if indeed he did), but luck was not on his side that night. There was a small group of people gathered in the lobby, looking unmistakably like they were waiting for someone. As Brian walked in the direction of the lift, he became aware of the looks he was getting. People were whispering, and glancing at him, and then quickly away, and back again. It was almost as though they couldn't help themselves. Even in Brian's somewhat befuddled state, he realised that he had been recognised. 

It was still a strange feeling, even though it was starting to happen more and more even back home, but Brian couldn't say that he was accustomed to it. The looks and the snippets of overheard conversations. And the double-takes from passers-by – fans, even, these days. Of course, his hair was the opposite of inconspicuous; that and his height did not give him much of a chance to blend into a crowd. Any crowd, ever. 

There was nothing for it, then. Squaring his shoulders, grateful that at least he wasn't feeling too poorly at least, at the moment, Brian headed towards the lift. He nodded courteously at the small group of people as he passed, hoping they would leave him be.

But as he finally reached the other side of the room, he became aware of a nervous presence to the left of him. Brian cocked his head and surveyed the slight, light-haired young man. He looked about Brian's age, or perhaps a few years younger. He was blushing, clearly trying very hard to gather up his courage to say something.

"Can I help you?" Brian asked, trying for a friendly tone. He hoped he didn't sound too exhausted, or crabby because of it. This fellow didn't need to hear about his troubles.

The young man's eyes lit up with excitement, just to be spoken to. "Oh, man, it's really you, isn't it. I was just – you're in the band, aren't you?" His voice wavered. "Queen? You're the guitarist."

Brian smiled, despite himself. Even though he was tired and nauseous, it still felt good to be recognised, and to be admired. It was a sign of success, after all. At long last, they were doing something right.

"Yeah, hi. I'm Brian," he said, offering his hand to the other man.

"I – I – my friends call me Chas," the man said, blushing an even deeper shade of red. The nervous grin on his face revealed a set of almost blindingly white, remarkably even teeth. Brian was starting to regret shaking hands; Chas had now grasped Brian's hand in both of his, and it didn't seem like he wanted to let go any time soon. 

"I was at the show tonight," Chas said. "You were great. Much better than Mott. Your singer – far out, man. But you're amazing. You're. Awesome show."

"Oh. Thank you," Brian inclined his head, trying to extract his hand politely. "Thanks awfully. Good to hear. Listen, um – do you mind –"

Chas finally let go, but moved in closer instead, a bit more so than Brian felt comfortable with. "Yeah, great show," Chas repeated. "Listen, Brian, can I ask you something?"

Oh no. Brian sighed. "Well, I suppose so," he said, unwilling to be impolite but thinking longingly of the peace and quiet of his hotel room. He tried to summon some patience. Maybe Chas just wanted an autograph? That would be quick, at least. 

"Okay," Chas said, sounding both shyer and more excited than before as he glanced around. He nodded in the direction of the hotel bar. "Yeah, we could, uh. Can I buy you a drink, maybe?"

"No, sorry," Brian shook his head. "I was going to turn in for the night."

"Oh… but I could – I could turn in with you, if you know what I mean?" Chas's hand was back on Brian's arm, moving back and forth a little. Almost like a caress. 

"I'm not sure that I do," Brian said, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. The sooner he got out of here, the better. "I think I should –"

"You're gorgeous, you know," Chas interrupted, voice wavering again. "We could have a good time together. A really good time. If you'd like."

Brian blinked back at him, momentarily lost for words. There was no way that could be misunderstood. The man actually was asking him straight out if he – Brian blushed at the thought, definitely at least as fiercely as Chas had done a little earlier.

"Look, I'm terribly sorry – thank you so much – it's, it's, I'm honoured," he stammered, barely knowing what he was saying, "but I really have to go now and –"

Brian rammed his finger on the call button of the lift, praying that his escape would be swift. 

"I'm so sorry," he kept repeating. Chas was nodding, trying to keep up a cheerful grin, but only succeeding in looking rather depleted.

The lift finally dinged and the doors opened. Brian rushed inside, leant against the mirrored wall and closed his eyes, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Or, alternately, that he might turn invisible. Anything but this.

* * *

The hotel room was as blessedly dark and empty as Brian had hoped it would be. He tried to not think about anything in particular, but instead focused on brushing his teeth quickly and changing into a pair of pyjamas, so he could put out the lights again. 

Settling down on the bed – it was too short and too narrow, as usual – he shifted a couple of times, trying to find at least a halfway comfortable position. But no matter what he did, the stomach-ache persisted. He sighed and finally turned to lie on his back, pulling up his legs a bit so that they were at least mostly on the bed. Then he tugged the thin blanket higher up, trying to find a bit more warmth, and crossed his fingers lightly on top of his chest. 

Staring up at the ceiling, his eyes followed the lines of the pattern cast by narrow strips of lighting coming from the streetlamps outside. The sound of the occasional car going by provided some distraction, but his mind just wouldn't quieten down. It kept circling back to the incident downstairs. He felt wretched about it, having turned Chas down like that. But what could he have said?

That man had wanted to spend the night with him. He had propositioned him. Offered himself up to him. And it wasn't as though – well, there were groupies. Of course. There had been times when Brian hadn't gone to bed alone on tour. But – that had been with women. He hadn't actually thought that – that a man would find him attractive, Brian supposed that was the thing.

Because _he_ didn't find men attractive.

It wasn't that he was all that clueless, really. Of course he was aware that gay people existed. Playing and travelling, you met all sorts. And he had been aware of the implications when he'd agreed to name the band Queen. Yes, it had taken him a while to come to terms with it, or to think it through. But the more he thought about it, the more it amused him to imagine the outraged reactions of narrow-minded people. Brian had never been one to listen to moralists or to live by arbitrary rules, and he was just as keen as the others to push the envelope: to be louder and brasher. Make-up and nail polish, wide sleeves and platform boots – he was all for it.

But that was a different thing from, from – Brian turned his head to the side in distress. Different from actually having physical relations with a man. He supposed that was what he was trying to wrap his head around. Being propositioned like this, and the implications of it. It was repellent.

And then he paused, and pondered that word. _Repellent._ Was it? If he was being honest? Was this what he actually thought, or just something that he was accustomed to thinking? Or maybe something that he had heard other people say? He shifted under the blanket, turning the matter over in his head. It really hadn't occurred to him to think about it in those terms before. 

But why not, after all? Why was it such an impossibility to fall in love with just anyone? Why couldn't _he_ have fallen in love with just anyone, a person in their own right rather than a gender? What did being a man, or a woman, or being anything, have to do with it, anyway?

He settled on his back again, fidgeting restlessly. It was just that the thought of actually spending the night with, with Chas, filled him with a vague sense of dread. And not only because he wasn't single, but because he wasn't attracted to men. Or… because he hadn't been attracted to _Chas,_ there, downstairs, in that moment? Was that it? 

But what if it had been someone else? 

Now that he thought about it, it wasn't as though he didn't find some men beautiful, just like he did women. But where did it change? When did you cross the line from simply appreciating someone's looks, the symmetry and grace of them, like you would a painting, or a sculpture, perhaps – and become attracted to them?

Take Roger, for example. Brian was definitely not physically attracted to him. He recoiled at the thought. But certainly, you could say that Roger was beautiful. Objectively so. He drew everyone's eye, regardless of gender or age or situation. And he revelled in that. So yes, Brian could admit that Roger was good-looking. He had no problem with that, however irritating he found the man himself at times. But saying that Roger was a looker didn't mean that he… Or John. There was that twinkle in his eyes sometimes, and a finely crafted line to his brows – anyone would find that pleasing, aesthetically appealing, wouldn't they? It didn't mean that he _desired_ his friends like he might a woman – Brian laughed silently and shook his head at the impossibility of it.

Or, consider Freddie. Sensual Freddie, lithe Freddie, who the audiences loved and who loved them fiercely in return. Freddie, who commanded everyone's attention, more so with every concert that they played. Freddie, who was outrageous and over-the-top one minute, and sincere and emotional the next. Freddie, who would lean close to Brian on the stage, over his guitar, or even go down on his knees next to him, sometimes, his moves meant to titillate and shock the audience. Freddie who – Brian swallowed. 

He turned to his side, wincing at the stab of pain in his belly, and shifted again. Sleep had never felt further away from him than at that moment.

He couldn't get away from his train of thought anymore. It was running away from him. Because Freddie was a different story.

What if it had been Freddie, there in the lobby? _Could_ it have been Freddie? He felt like a traitor for even considering it. (Think about their lives at home, for God's sake. Freddie had a _girlfriend,_ for crying out loud.) But say – just pretend for a moment that instead of the unfamiliar American youth, with his perfect teeth and his light, carefully tended hair, that it would have been Freddie.

It didn't seem as impossible as it should have been. Of course, Brian's mind supplied, eagerly starting to spin the thought into a story, if it _had_ been Freddie, he wouldn't have been talking about such a matter out where anyone could have heard him. No, it would have been somewhere more private. It would have been just the two of them, heads bent close together. Talking in low voices. Understanding each other, the way they sometimes did when they worked on a song, when it felt like they were speaking a language only they shared. 

And then, Freddie would have placed his head on Brian's shoulder, perhaps, for a moment. Their eyes would meet and they would _know,_ somehow, then. They would just know, and there would be no need to spell it out. And maybe Freddie would smile. Or, better yet, he would laugh at something they had said. And Brian would bask in that beautiful smile. And then, he would lean even closer, and he would touch Freddie's face, and draw him even nearer, and then he would – 

Brian stopped, horrified at himself. Shamefully aware that his right hand had somehow drifted downwards on the blanket without his notice. Just a bit more and he would have been all but touching himself. While thinking about Freddie. No, no. No! This couldn't be happening! What the hell was wrong with him? How could he be lying here thinking about Freddie – his friend, who he was going to be standing on the stage with tomorrow – who he was going to be sharing a bus with – lying here imagining what it would be like to kiss him. And more. His friend. His _male_ friend. 

Oh, no. How was he going to keep this from Freddie? Who knew him so well? He couldn't do this. They were in the middle of the tour, and they were going to be living practically on top of each other for weeks yet. Sooner or later, he was going to be sharing a _room_ with Freddie. And how was he going to face him, ever again? Brian knew that something fundamental had just shifted. For a moment, he had definitely not thought of Freddie as a friend. But as a _lover._

He had been.

Brian covered his eyes with his hands in horror.

It was going to be a very long night.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This was the original prompt:
> 
> _"1974, first America tour. Brian is already under the weather from the developing hepatitis, the lack of sleep, the stress, the homesickness. Then he gets propositioned by a (male) fan in his hotel lobby."_
> 
> Any thoughts? Come talk to me in the comments!


End file.
